


Pariah

by Wildmooncat



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Action/Adventure, Coming Out, Coming of Age, F/F, F/M, Injustice, M/M, Oppression, Rebellion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-19 10:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7358122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildmooncat/pseuds/Wildmooncat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders, Dorian, and Marni were each shaped by injustice. Each a pariah, unwilling to live the lives that were chosen for them, the three find in each other the hope for a world remade.</p>
<p>Story begins at just before the Chantry blows up in DA II, and will creep forward in time, spanning the years preceding and following Inquisition. Largely in keeping with canon, but I ignore Trespasser. Quasi-sequel to Sorrow and Solace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Marni

**Author's Note:**

> Hello darling readers! This will be a quasi-sequel to my novel Sorrow and Solace (an angsty Solavellan romance/adventure). However, you don’t need to read Sorrow and Solace to keep up with this one, which is a very different kind of story focusing on Dorian, Anders, and an OC I introduced in my previous story (you may remember her as the Jenny that gives Dorian info about Halviana). But if you want to check out the other work, you might want to do that before you’re too deep into this one, as there will be cross over ahead.  
> I’ll be starting off near the end of DAII act 3 (before Anders blows up the Chantry), following Anders, Dorian, and Marni. I’ll be moving those characters forward in time, with most events taking place well after the ending of Dragon Age II and Sorrow and Solace. I wrote S&S before Bioware released the DLC that shall not be named. And, I’m continuing to write as though it never happened, because it just hurts too damn much! I hope you enjoy, and I love, love, love to hear from readers. It keeps me motivated and writing when I know folks are reading and enjoying my work! And it seriously makes my day to get reader comments.

Marni was eight years old when the slavers came to Darktown. She was born to the skyless boundedness of walls and filth, in a place that she came to understand as _beneath_ the world, rather than a part of it. The people of Kirkwall treaded over her, dumped their waste into rivulets of filth that flowed out of their sight and into hers. Out of sight: that was how the people of Kirkwall preferred their waste, and it was how they preferred Marni and others like her, the forgotten dredges of their city. When she would look back on her early life, that was what she would call the people pushed out of the light and out of sight into the shadows of Darktown: The Forgotten.

Mostly elves, refugees, and criminals, the Forgotten served an important function in Kirkwall: they allowed those who lived above to understand themselves as _being_ _above._ From what Marni could tell, you couldn’t have an “above” without a “beneath,” so it was probably a great comfort to people living in Lowtown and Hightown to have the Forgotten underneath them as constant, albeit invisible, assurance of their relative status. Marni also suspected that there might be some sense of affinity gained for the people of Kirkwall in their joint, unspoken agreement to forget about the Forgotten, the same way they forgot about their waste, the same way Marni and her sister, Roe, agreed to forget about their father.

Marni’s memory of her father was a blur, and refusing to try to recall the details of his face or voice was, in her mind, an act of love for her sister who’d had to say to Marni only once that they should forget him before she set about the task. Forgetting him wasn’t the slow passive process of fading memories. It was active. She consciously blurred his face and garbled his voice and mixed up the letters of his name whenever she thought of him until she was quite sure that she wouldn’t know him even if he did show up, which he probably wouldn’t. To her mother, Marni applied the opposite practice, consciously sharpening every detail of her memory of Pelar until the image Marni had of her in her mind’s eye was clearer than anything the senses could produce.

 It was sometimes hard to believe that, as clear and detailed and lively as Marni’s memory of her mother was, imagination could not give her life. Pelar was gone. Father was gone too, but alive, and no matter how actively Marni blurred his face and garbled his voice, she could not smudge him out of the world any more than she could will Pelar back into it. The injustice of these facts were the seeds of Marni’s anger, a quality that Roe often chastised in her, urging her to accept their mother’s death, their father’s life, and their place _beneath_. But Marni protected and fostered her anger, and delighted in imagining it one day sprouting out of her chest like a beautiful twisted tree bearing angry red fruit that would poison or nourish anyone who ate it, depending on her whim. As far as Marni could see, acceptance—the opposite of anger—could never nourish or poison anyone, and that made it useless.

Sometimes to distract herself from the persistent pangs of hunger, Marni would watch the Forgotten and try to determine from the way they moved, sat, and spoke, who, like Roe, believed in acceptance, and who, like Marni, believed in anger. She felt instant affinity for anyone who looked like they might be hiding anger seeds in their hearts. They were part of a secret fraternity of the outraged, those who would not be quiet or gracious, would not smile on command, and would not let things go, those who would insist on being seen and remembered, even when it wasn’t wise. This was what first drew her to Anders.

Anders was a human and a man, which usually put Marni on edge. Men, particularly human men, were dangerous; they saw elven girls as potential victims, easy targets to sate their perverse appetites and to assure themselves that, despite their place beneath the world, at least there was still someone they could put beneath them. But Anders was different. Like Marni, his anger bent toward goodness. When Marni was very young and was near death from a fever and a cough that rattled in her lungs, Pelar had brought her to Anders who tended her for three days with a quiet compassion that Marni had only felt from her mother and sister otherwise. He healed all the Forgotten with that quiet and nurturing compassion, asking for nothing in return.

However, Marni had also seen him burn like a bright blue flame, filled with rage so powerful that she had feared (and maybe hoped a little) that his anger would tear free from his skin, like maggot’s bursting through the belly of a dead rat. But once the Templars who had caused his rage to blossom in such bright, beautiful fullness, were dead at his feet, the flame quieted, and he was Anders the healer again.

It was witnessing this scene that inspired Marni to attach herself to Anders. While Marni’s anger unchecked would get her scolded, kicked, or worse, Anders had made the world bend, however briefly, to recognize his rage as consequential. While Roe assured her that Anders’ power came from magic, not anger, and she could never learn to do what he did, Marni saw more. So at the age of seven, she told Anders that she wanted to be a healer and would do any chores he needed if he would just teach her a little about potions and tending injuries. But it was not really the healer from whom she wanted to learn. It was to Anders’ anger she apprenticed herself, determined to learn to summon that flame inside and see the world bend.

Anders looked down at the dainty child, rubbing the stubble of his jaw thoughtfully. Marni appreciated the fact that he did not laugh at her as Roe had told her he would, though she thought she saw bemusement play on his twitching lips. After an impossibly long silence, Anders finally said, “I suppose I could use a hand around here.” And so began her apprenticeship.

For almost a year, Marni helped Anders around his clinic, boiling water, drying herbs, and cleaning bedding, among other duties. He taught her to read a little so she could properly fetch bottles of this-and-that, and he’d give her money and food enough for her and Roe to live but not so much to make them targets for the desperate who might view the children as an easy mark. Every day, Marni would set about her work in the clinic, watching Anders with eager anticipation to catch a glimpse of his pure bright anger. But, much to Marni’s daily disappointment, in the clinic he was always the picture of calm. Yes the anger was there, nestled deep in his heart, shuddering through his tense voice, however he never allowed it to bloom as he had when she’d seen him fight the Templars. Not until the day the slavers came.

Marni was putting fresh bedding on the clinic cots while Anders was mixing a pain-numbing salve when the sound of screams and scuffling reached them from outside. Marni dropped the bedding and pulled the tiny knife she used to skewer rats from her boot, prepared to run or fight.

Frowning, Anders looked to the entrance of the clinic and grabbed his nearby staff. “Stay here, Marni,” he said cautiously before walking out the door with wide purposeful strides.

Marni, sensing the possibility that she might at last get to witness Anders aflame with anger again, waited only long enough that she could be sure he was sufficiently far ahead that he wouldn’t immediately grab her and lock her in the clinic. Once she heard his footfalls pad down the nearby stairs, she snuck through the clinic door to track behind her teacher.

Marni followed the screams on tip toe, rounding the corner to see several armed human’s wearing robes and pointy hoods and two elves, either dead or unconscious, piled in a heap against the wall. One pointy-hooded human held the wrist of a third elf with her back to Marni. The elf struggled to get away with no results, save the sadistic laughter of her captor who took some twisted pleasure in her pointless struggle. Bystanders were busy _accepting_ the scene that was playing out in front of them, no doubt already concluding that intervening would accomplish nothing, and no one but Anders and another rage-filled elf Marni knew as Jenny seemed to be doing anything to prevent the pointies from taking the elves.

“Let them go, shem,” Jenny growled, a dagger at the ready. Anders staff was also poised for a fight, but the fire of his anger was still controlled and concealed.

The elf being wrangled by the slaver made a trembling and futile attempt to pull away and turned her body briefly to face Marni in the process. Marni’s blood lit at the sight of her sister’s panicked face, her dark skin ashen with terror. “Roe!” Marni screamed as she ran full speed toward the man restraining her sister, tiny pin-knife clenched tightly in her small fist.

Anders paled at the sound of her voice, “Marni, no!” he shouted, as he lunged to intercept her. He tried to grab her arm as she deftly evaded him in her bee-line for the slaver restraining her sister. Before the man had even noticed the small girl running at him, Marnie stabbed her pin knife deep into his thigh.

The man screamed and released Roe who ran away stumbling and sobbing without a backward glance. Perhaps Roe had expected Marni to be right behind her, or maybe fear clouded all other thoughts and feelings with the desperate drive for survival. Marni’s own escape being blocked by the quickly closing throng of humans, she was forced to watch as Roe rounding the corner and left her sight just as another pointy-hooded man grabbed Marni from behind, pinning her arms to her side and lifted her squirming and kicking body off the ground.

Whatever needling fear Marni felt faded the second her sister was out of her sight and her own chance of escape was closed off. Anger burned hot within her as she snapped her teeth, snarling at the pointies. Her entire soul and body clawed for any part of her enemies that might dare wander within her reach.

“I’m going to enjoy breaking that little bitch,” said the man who’d gotten the business end of her knife as he pressed his hand to stymie the bleeding of his thigh.

“You try it and I’ll put the knife right through your cock next time!” Marni shouted, delighting in the slight reddening of his cheeks at her words.

As Marni grinned venomously at her victim, a deep thundering voice sounded to her left that sent a thrill through her she’d only felt once before. “Release her, Slaver! Or I will kill every last one of you!” Ander’s shouted, his voice and form blooming in a blaze of blue rage. Bystanders screamed and ran, more afraid of the monstrous change in Anders than the slavers. But to Marni the cracked and burning form of her friend was a longed for glimpse at the ideal potential of rage in human form, all that she desperately wished to become.

“And _what_ exactly are you supposed to be?” asked one of the slavers dryly.

“I am Justice, and you will not have this child!” Anders boomed.

_Justice._ The word worked its way under Marni’s skin. This blazing anger that threatened to consume anything it touched was justice. She’d heard the word before, usually said in hushed whispers between Anders and his friends, and occasionally by people in Darktown who shook their heads in resignation saying “there is no justice.” But its full meaning had alluded her. Now she felt its effect, her own skin prickling and the grip of the man who restrained her tightening slightly as Marni squirmed and whooped. “Justice,” spoken by a transformed Anders, seemed as much a name as a promise; this was Justice, and there would be justice. It was beautiful and terrifying, sublime in its intensity.

The slavers exchanged curious looks between them. The woman with the pointiest hat waved her hand dismissively. “Marcus, take the two there. Lycus, bring the noisy whelp. The rest of you, hold off… whatever _that_ is,” she said gesturing in Anders’ direction.

Anders roared with a bellow that rang through Marni’s entire being and etched itself upon her heart. Lycus turned from Anders with Marni trapped in his arms, so she could only listen and not watch as her teacher, this master of perfect anger, tore into the men who were ill-fated to die while the rest made their escape with Marni and the others in tow.     

Marni didn’t fault Anders for not saving her. He’d made a greater effort to help her than the Maker had ever made on behalf of his followers. He had done more than her sister. On the march to the coast, she focused her attention on remembering Anders in perfect detail, both the nurturing healer and the blazing wrath of Justice. In her heart, she thought she felt the rage tree begin to sprout.


	2. Anders

With the slavers dead at Anders' feet, Justice receded. When his other half pulled back into the shadows, the surging power drained from Anders like ale from a punctured cask. He stumbled forward and braced himself against his staff as he tried to shake off the confusion and disorientation Justice always left in his wake. Catching sight of the dead, his breath caught “No, no, no!” he whimpered in a quavering panic as he dropped to his knees. What had he done? Who had he killed? Breathlessly with self-disgust roiling nauseously in his gut, he rolled body after body over to ensure they all wore the garb of Tevinter slavers, with the exception of an elven woman who had clearly been killed by blood magic. Not by his hand, then. Thank the Maker. Sobs of relief wracked his body as he folded the arms of the one dead innocent across her body in a pose of serenity and gently closed her lashes, grateful that her killer was likely among the dead as well. He had known the young woman as an agent of the resistance group known as The Friends of Red Jenny. She’d been his Darktown contact, slipping him and Hawke information regarding Templar, Carta, and Coterie activity. And now she was gone, and he wasn’t even sure how to go about informing her people. He didn’t even know her name.

“Sir?” a young voice said behind him, making Anders jump. He whirled to face the speaker, who flinched away from him, looking as though she wanted nothing more than to bolt. Anders’ head was still clearing; he recognized the girl, but he could not quite place her. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” she said in a small, unsteady voice. “But, my little sister… I don’t know where she is.”

He relaxed his guard. “Roe,” he breathed, the mention of the sister bringing his memory into focus around the form of this lanky, elven, adolescent. He didn’t know her well, but Marni spoke of her often. “Have you checked the…” he began, thinking to suggest she check the clinic for little Marni, but then the memories came back to him in a chilling rush: the child evading his protective grasp, attacking the slaver who held her sister, and being scoop up and carried off. Anders paled and his stomach lurched. He buried his face in his hands. “Maker, no,” he whimpered. It was the sight of her in danger that had brought Justice out of the recesses of Anders’ mind, making him lose control. And while Justice was occupied fighting the now-dead men, the other slavers had escaped with Marni and two others. She was gone.

“Sir?” Roe asked, her own voice reaching a point of panic at the sight of him coming apart.

Anders used his staff to push his exhausted body to his feet. Roe’s brown eyes were wide and filling with tears as she no doubt intuited the worst from his own ill-concealed emotions. Little Marni had, knowingly or not, traded fates with her sister. And Anders recalled how Roe had run from the slavers without a backward glance at the sister who had saved her. Anger sparked in his blood at the memory, the _injustice,_ that Marni should suffer for her selfless bravery while her sister remained free by virtue of her cowardice. But the kinder part of him recognized that Roe was just a child, and fear was a powerful emotion that could have made even an adult run mindlessly from the danger. Of course, _Marni_ had not run, he thought bitterly, wishing it was she he was tasked to comfort instead of Roe.

“Sir? Please, where is my sister?” Roe pressed again, her tears falling freely now.

Anders closed his eyes to find a place of calm within himself from which to speak, lest his own anger and dread further upset the girl. “I am so sorry, Roe,” he began in a low voice. “The slavers… they took her. I wasn’t able to stop them.”

Roe let out a strangled sob, and Anders crouched to wrap her in a steadying embrace. Not that he was particularly steady at that moment either. He’d failed Marni. That clever, fiery, and brave child would be broken and sold by slavers because Anders hadn’t been fast enough or strong enough, because he hadn’t thought to lock that blighted door behind him when he’d left the clinic. Marni, whom he had delivered squalling into the cruel world of Darktown, whom he had cared for in sickness, whom he had taught to read and mix potions. Marni, whom he worried about whenever she was out of his sight, wondering if he’d given her enough food, if her threadbare clothes were sufficient to keep out the cold and damp, if she might be in danger. He’d often mused that if he were to have a child of his own, he would want her to be like Marni, and he’d fancied that she looked to him as a father of sorts, especially since her own father had killed her mother and took off, abandoning the two girls presumably to starve in Darktown. Anders had failed Marni, as so many others had failed her. His heart went out to Roe in that regard; they had each loved Marni, and they had each let her down. She’d deserved better

“Where… where did they take her?” Roe said between sobs.

“Most likely they are taking her to Tevinter,” he said softly, knowing the news would not soothe her.

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” she asked, her pitch frantic.

Anders wasn’t sure. He didn’t know which way they’d gone, further, he was afraid that fighting them again would bring out Justice. And Justice was just as likely to kill Marni as save her. He would need someone with him to keep him grounded, someone who could do what was necessary should he lose control. “I… have some friends who might be able to help,” he said grasping Roe by the shoulders. “You can wait in my clinic. Lock the door in case there are more slavers nearby.” He pressed the key to his clinic into her shaking hand. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, but if anyone can find Marni, it’s my friends.”

Anders took the short-cut to Hawke’s estate, through the secret cellar opening by his clinic. He had the key to this entrance for emergencies, should the Templars at last come for him and he find himself in need of a quick escape. When Anders pushed open the cellar door into Hawke’s sizeable kitchen, her manservant Bodahn nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Goodness!” he said, clasping his hand to his heart. “Master Anders! You took a decade off my life with that fright.”

Anders didn’t have time to chat. “Bodahn, I need to speak to Hawke. It’s urgent.”

The dwarf’s mustache twitched, no doubt put off by Ander’s abrupt rudeness. “She’s in the parlor with Master Fenris, I believe,” he said coolly as he resumed his work scrubbing a large pot.

Fenris. Of course. Anders bristled at the name. What Hawke saw in that animal Anders could never understand. But at the moment, Hawke’s taste in men wasn’t his primary concern. He rushed to the parlor where the pair were drinking wine. Hawke was laughing at something Fenris had said, but her smile quickly faded when she caught sight of Anders huffing and flushed in the doorway.

“Maker!” she said, putting her wine glass down and rising from her seat. “What’s the matter?”

Fenris scowled in his direction, clearly perturbed that his moment with Hawke had been spoiled by Anders’ sudden entrance. Good. “Let me guess: Templars, Templars, and more Templars. When is it ever anything else when you’re concerned?” The elf grumbled.

Anders’ face heated. Maker, he hated that man. “Actually, Fenris, today I’ve taken up your particular obsessions,” he said bitterly. He turned to Hawke whose brow was furrowed curiously. “Tevinter slavers took some people in Darktown, including my assistant, Marni. I tried to fight them off but… there were too many. They escaped with Marni and two others, I think, while the rest of the slavers held me off.”

Fenris perked up. “Marni? The elven child?” he asked, standing with a flash in his eyes and a curl in his lip that usually signaled he was thinking about crushing someone’s innards.

Anders nodded. “I don’t know where they might have taken her, Hawke.”

Hawke turned to Fenris. “Through the sewer passages?”

“Most likely,” Fenris said with dark rage pulsing in his voice. “From there they could access the docks for an escape by sea, or leave Kirkwall underground through the lyrium smuggling routes. They may have a den outside of town to keep their _prizes_ while they gather others before returning to the Imperium.”

Hawke looked to Anders. “I’ll have Bodahn get word to Aveline to have her men detain any departing ships and keep an eye open at the docks and factory district. Meanwhile, we can try to head them off where the tunnels open outside of town.” She put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a reassuring smile. “We’ll find her, Anders. They can’t have gotten far.”

Anders thanked Hawke and even gave Fenris a grudging nod of appreciation as the elf strapped on his sword with the clear intention of heading out with Anders and Hawke to find Marni. Anders remembered Fenris’ uncharacteristic tenderness when Marni had asked him in wide-eyed awe if she could touch his lyrium tattoos. The elf had crouched down, taken Marni’s small hand in his own, and guided her fingers gently across his markings while Hawke smiled in affectionate surprise. Marni had talked about the experience for days afterward, saying over and over that the markings were beautiful, like an angry tree, and she wanted ones just like them some day. Anders didn’t have the heart to tell her the true nature of Fenris’ tattoos.

Fenris snorted in response to Anders’ silent thanks. “I do this as no favor to you, _mage_ ,” he scoffed.

Anders smiled thinly. “Don’t worry, Fenris. I never for an instant supposed that was the case.”

Fenris cocked an eyebrow at Anders as Hawke rushed to give Bodahn instructions. “It is probably mages that have taken her, you know,” he said, barbing Anders. “I’ve seen what they do to children like her. She is strong and willful. They won’t be able to break her spirit; they’ll most likely bleed her in some twisted ritual before they even reach the Imperium.”

“Do you have a point?” Anders snapped, not appreciating Fenris’ goading or the image of Marni’s death that now played in his mind.

“Only that you should learn from this experience. Mages unchained will do anything to increase their power and standing, whether with slaves or blood magic. This is the cost of the world you wish to make.”

Ander’s clenched his jaw. As usual Fenris completely misunderstood both the intricacies of Anders’ politics and the nature of power. They could argue eternally about how the politics and inequities of Tevinter related or not to the present circumstances of mages in the rest of Thedas, but now was not the time. Marni needed them.

Hawke reentered the room, and her eyes flitted between them, catching the icy mood of the room and the tense posture of both men. “Are you boys behaving yourselves?” she asked, with a smirk.

Anders sighed and made for the door. “Let’s just go.” His blood heated at the thought of letting Fenris have the last word, but he forced himself to bite his tongue, swallow his pride, and leave Fenris’ ignorance be. For now.

The three left the city through the main gates and scouted the most likely exit from the Kirkwall tunnels that fed out to a hilly area near the wounded coast. There were tracks. Most of the footprints appeared too large to be made by dwarves, so it was likely the passage had most recently been used by slavers rather than lyrium smugglers.

“It appears they were headed toward the coast,” Fenris said. “They’re likely using the caves there as a den.”

Hawke folded her arms and tutted. “Don’t they ever learn? How many times have we cleared slavers out of the caves there?”

“Well, Hawke,” Anders said, “When you don’t leave any survivors, it’s rather difficult for them to get word to other slavers that they ought not to use these particular caves.”

“Good,” said Fenris flatly. “It makes it easier to find and kill them when they only use one of three places for shelter.”

“I suppose,” Hawke said with a sigh. “But a little variety would be nice.”

The trek to the caves took several hours. And it was well after nightfall by the time they arrived at the slavers’ camp. The lower the sun sank, the tenser Anders became. Fenris’ suggestion that the slavers wouldn’t likely keep Marni alive long enough to reach Tevinter rang alarmingly true. She was bold, sharp-tongued, and had a temper that sparked easily and viciously. And she certainly hadn’t endeared herself to her captors any when she’d attacked them. Further, she was exceptionally bad at doing what she was told and was far cleverer than he suspected her captors would want from an ideal slave. It was entirely possible that they had taken her with the specific intention of using her for her blood rather than her labor.

When they approached the cave, Ander’s felt the subtle warbling effect of the magic wards set across its entrance. He held out his arms to halt the advance of Hawke and Fenris.

“What is it?” Fenris growled.

“Wards,” Hawke said, sensing the warping of the fade herself. “They must have set up camp for the night.”

“All the easier to take them by surprise,” Fenris said flexing his fingers into a fist.

“Just a moment,” Anders said. He lifted his hands and closed his eyes to focus his senses on the barrier before him. His stomach clenched as he felt the tell-tale pulse of blood magic rippling through the ward. “They killed someone to set the wards,” he said in a pained whisper.

He felt Hawke’s hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure it wasn’t your friend, Anders.”

Her words were empty. There was no way any of them could be sure until they found Marni, alive or dead. Anders returned his attention to the wards. He could sense the pulsing threads of mana that connected each ward to the fade. One by one, he focused on each thread, and used his own magic to sever their connections to the fade, disarming the wards. Disarming blood magic felt very much like killing; as he cut the life blood that powered the spells from their source of mana like a severed vein, he could feel the force of the spells drain away, the pulse slowing and quieting as the spell faded. He couldn’t help but imagine Marni’s blood flowing through those spells, himself wielding the blade that silenced her heart beat. As he finished his task, he doubled over and retched dryly.

“Anders, are you all right?” Hawke asked gently.

“We will go on ahead if you can’t continue,” Fenris added without kindness.

Anders wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up. “I’m fine,” he said firmly.

“Then let’s get on with it before the slavers move on,” Fenris said.

Anders nodded and led the way into the cave. When they reached the central chamber, after disarming a few more wards, they found several men and women wearing Tevinter-style garb sleeping in cots. Another man was seated near the entrance to an adjacent cavern. He was awake but his attention was focused on his hands as he filed his nails and periodically admired his work. Anders recognized him as the man Marni had stabbed, his leg elevated and bandaged.

Hawke smiled and waved her hand, summoning a stasis field around the guard. Fenris, soundlessly approached the sleeping slavers and calmly slit one of their throats. The gurgling sound of his victim’s death rattle made the others stir in their sleep, but Fenris made short work of the groggy slavers. Anders made his way to where the guard sat frozen under the power of Hawke’s spell. The cavern entrance the man had been tasked to guard let to a small chamber where several slaves sat bound in the dark, shuffling away from the entrance as Anders neared. He flicked his wrist to summon a heatless flame on his palm. The slaves stared up at him with wide-eyed terror. Four elves, two humans. All of them adults. No Marni.

The air rushed from Ander’s lungs in a pained huff of dread and disappointment. He left the slaves and looked around the main chamber for bodies or another holding area. There was no sign of her.

He could barely hear Hawke’s voice over the thrumming of his pulse in his ears. “What is it Anders?” she asked, still maintaining the stasis spell that held the guard immobile.

He shook his head. “She’s not here. This must be the wrong group of slavers.” That was a preferable possibility to the one that actually dominated his thoughts. “We’ll… we’ll finish here, and then search the other caverns.” Hawke nodded, her brow furrowed, no doubt questioning the likelihood that Marni would be held in another cave, but she would not deny him his hope. If Anders needed to search every cave in the Free Marches, Hawke would be there with him.

Anders returned to the slave chamber and began untying the bonds of the former-slaves in a numb daze. As he worked on the last person’s bonds, slowly loosening the knots at her wrists, one of the others—a human man whom Anders vaguely recognized from Darktown—spoke to him. “You’re the healer, aren’t you?” he asked. “‘Adder’ or something.”

“‘Anders,’” he absently corrected.

The man nodded. “I thought it was you. Recognized the ponytail and the skirt,” he said, satisfied. “They had your little one, you know. The dark-skinned knife-ear with the curly hair and the sharp tongue.”

Anders started and felt blood pulse anew through his veins. Hope teetered on the edge of terror. “They had Marni? Do you know where she is now?”

The man shook his head. “Nowhere good, I expect. They dragged her out of here when she got mouthy with the guard. She and one other, a pretty young thing, a human. That was some time ago, now.”

Anders’ knees weakened, imagining what fate might have befallen his young charge. He leaned against the wall for support, the cool, hard stone grounding him even as the room spun.

“What do we do now, sir?” said a young man’s voice behind him.

Anders closed his eyes, not wanting to deal with the care of six frightened slaves just then. “You’re free,” he said heavily. “You may follow us back to Kirkwall if you wish or go your own way.”

The would-be slaves began to rise from the ground, rubbing their wrists and holding one another in relief and comfort. If any of them thought to embrace Anders in a show of gratitude, his melancholic aspect must have made them think better of it. They all granted him his space and maintained the silence he kept as he searched himself for a spark of hope in the midst of the cold, dark cave. After some time, he walked slowly out of the hold into the larger cavern, bracing himself against the wall as he shuffled slowly forward.

Hawke and Fenris were both standing in front of the guard who was now tied up but no longer ensorcelled. At the sight of the man, Anders’ anger burned hotly, remembering him threatening to “break” Marni after she’d planted her blade deep into the meat of his thigh. Justice pushed against Ander’s thoughts, and he was tempted to let go, allow Justice to rip him apart in a mad need to balance Marni’s victimization with this man’s life, but Anders reminded himself that the man might have information that could help him find Marni if she still lived and give him closure if she didn’t.

“I’d like to ask him some questions,” Anders said softly to Hawke.

Hawke nodded. “I thought you might.”

Anders stood between Hawke and Fenris, directly in front of the slaver’s sneering face. “You?” the man spat. “Don’t you Free Marcher’s know to keep your abominations chained?”

An amused snort escaped Fenris, winning him a stern look from Hawke that encouraged him to pass his laugh off as a cough.

Anders’ narrowed his eyes. “Seeing as _I’m_ not the one who’s chained, I suggest you try _not_ to make me any angrier than I already am.”

“Good advice,” Hawke said with a grin. “Anders here is an absolute laugh riot compared to the other guy.”

Ignoring Hawke’s joke about Justice, Anders leaned in close to the slaver’s face. “You took a girl from Darktown. The one who stabbed you. I want to know what happened to her.”

A wicked grin slowly spread across the slaver’s face. “Let’s just say, she got what was coming to her.”

“Hmm,” Hawke said. “See, now you’re playing games. You don’t seem to understand the gravity of your situation. Fenris, do me a favor and show our friend how serious this is.”

Fenris stepped forward, as Anders moved to the side. “Gladly,” he said as he lifted a glowing hand and plunged it into the man’s chest. The slaver screamed out in agony.

“Do you see now?” Hawke asked. “ _Very_ serious. Now, you have a choice: you can either die here, _very_ painfully. Or you can come back to Kirkwall with us and spend the rest of your days in comfortable captivity _if_ you cooperate. Now kindly answer Anders’ question: what happened to the girl?”

“What do you think happened to her?” the man said, choking on blood and pain as he tried to speak through the torture Fenris was inflicting. “She wouldn’t keep her mouth shut, wouldn’t stop her kicking and biting. More trouble than she was worth. So we cut her open and made the best of her. Threw the body in the sea.” The man laughed wetly. “I’ll tell you this, though: little cunt died screaming.”

A slight twitch of Fenris’ lip and the elf tightened his fist. Anders quickly turned to avoid glimpsing the grisly effect. Hot flecks of blood, speckled the side of his neck as Fenris squeezed the slaver’s heart into pulp. Anders hated Fenris’ casual brutality, but just this once, he felt grateful that Hawke had let him off his leash. Marni was dead, but so were the people who had killed her. Justice had been served, and Anders’ other-self curled up contentedly in the shadows of his mind, leaving room for grief to settle in.

 

               

    

 


	3. Wounded Coast

Marni wasn’t a picky eater. Whenever she found herself in the lucky position of having food in front of her, she would eat it, even if she had to hold her nose to get it down. But when Lycus slid the bowl of bland but perfectly edible grains in front of her and barked at her to eat, Marni suddenly developed a discerning palate. She lifted her tied hands and poked an index finger into the bowl, scrunching up her nose. “Bleh,” she said sticking out her tongue. “Why’s it all mush? And what’s the little black bits there?”

“Just eat the blighted porridge,” Lycus groaned in a voice Marni was pleased to note sounded entirely exasperated. She’d been picking at him all through their march to the cave, stepping on his heels as they walked, whining about the heat, and the brightness, and the sand in her toes. She’d notice that he’d started to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose every time she spoke. Marni wondered if anyone had ever died from a headache.

She took a dramatic sniff of the food and retched. “Is it supposed to smell like nug farts?”

“ _Eat it_ ,” he said slowly, putting heavy emphasis on both words as he continued to pass around the bowls and give each captive a ladle full of water which they slurped up gratefully.

“Is it just mine that smells like that?” she said, stifling a grin as she looked into the bowl of the person sitting next to her and took a whiff. She pulled away quickly and gagged. “Ugh. Nope. Nope. It’s definitely all of ‘em,” she said, holding her breath.

“Shut it, and eat,” the man next to her hissed. “You’re asking for a world of trouble, little one.”

She’d been hearing such warnings all day. Marni was pretty sure they were all already in _a world of trouble_. The pointies hadn’t pulled them out of Darktown just to enjoy a walk in the sunshine and dinner by the beach. If Marni was going to be carted off to be somebody’s servant or plaything, she wanted to make sure Lycus suffered for it every minute. Her outrage may not have been powerful enough to bloom into a great fire of Justice, but if she picked at Lycus endlessly, like a thousand little angry bee stings, perhaps he would think twice about whether it was really worth the hassle to abduct little elven girls. And maybe after he had sold her off and was finally free of her, he would think of her sometimes as he lay awake at night, her voice still whining in his head, raising an itch behind his eyes and sending the scar on his thigh twinging.

Once Lycus finished handing around the bowls, he limped out of the little cavern which served as some kind of holding cell for the people abducted with Marni and the five others who were already there when she’d arrived. She heard Lycus scrape a chair outside the cavern’s opening and sit heavily with an exhausted and pained grunt. Marni smiled wickedly, knowing that the grunt was all her doing.

“I’ve ate week-dead rats that smelled better than this rot,” Marni called out. She took another smell, sniffing loudly. “Like someone was cooking it in their arse, then shat out the goopy mess right in the bowls.”

One of the other captives groaned and pushed his bowl away.

“He knows it too!” she said laughing. “Right rubbish this is. Do you have to eat this shite too, Licey? Or did you get to have the first go of it? Was it much better the first time around?” She shook her head. “Can’t imagine it going down easy even at its best. What was it before it was _this_? Some kind of drowned dog you scooped off the beach, all wiggly with maggots?”

“Would you stop?” another captive said as she too grimaced and pushed the food away.

“Nobody wants to eat this sick, Licey!” Marni shouted, pleased that others were joining in her refusal to eat. “You got anything better out there? Maybe an old boot?”

Lycus’ chair scraped against the sandy stone, and he stomped into the chamber, his left leg stiff, his face red as a stubbed toe. He grabbed Marni by the hair, hurting her more than she would let show. “Eat!” he growled through gritted teeth and shoved her face in the food, grinding her nose into the bottom of the bowl.

Marni took a mouthful of the porridge, which really wasn’t bad at all, and held it in her cheeks. Lycus dropped the bowl and pulled her head back, putting his face very close to hers. “You best learn to mind your manners and be damned grateful you’re _not_ eating drowned dog,” he said, voice laced with venom and fantasies of how he wanted to punish her.

Marni sucked in her cheeks to gather the porridge on her tongue and spat it into Lycus’ face and mouth. For good measure she also cleared her nose of the stuff in a snort that spattered his cheeks with two more gobs. The blow against her jaw was not unexpected. But Marni suspected that she was more accustomed to being hit than Lycus was to being disrespected by people _beneath_ him, and she fancied that _his_ injury would burn hotter and longer than _hers_. Still, the strike made her anger spark like a knife to flint. She lunged at him, and he pulled back in surprise, leaving her easy access to his thigh. She sunk her teeth into the same place she’d planted her knife hours before. Lycus screamed, kicking her off of him, but not before her mouth was awash with the coppery taste of his blood. As he threw her roughly into the wall, she spat his blood back at him.

Marni had learned from a young age how to not feel. She’d gather herself into a luminous ball and leave her body, hovering just above as she’d numbly watch the scene play out. It made it easier to not be afraid when she didn’t have to feel in moments like these. She used this skill now, and calmly watched as Lycus retaliated with blow after screaming blow. The pain would come later of course. It always did. But in disconnecting from the moment, the agony of broken bones, bruises, and welts became an abstract thing that she didn’t have to fear and could instead use as rich fodder for her growing anger. All that occupied Marni’s thoughts as she observed Lycus beating her from above was how stupid she had been to waste her moment of opportunity on his thigh when his cock had dangled vulnerably just a few inches to the left. _Stupid. Stupid._

She wasn’t sure how long Lycus’ beating went on before the other slavers dragged him off of her shouting about damaging the merchandise. While three men held back Lycus, who was still shouting and trying to pull away, his eyes wide and wild as he stared at her, the pointiest woman, whom the others had called Idesta, grabbed Marni by the arm and hoisted her to her feet. She dragged Marni into the much larger adjacent cavern and threw her to the dusty ground. Marni hissed as the rough sand scraped against an angry red lash on her arm. There was that pain. Her body was a chorus of bruises and welts, but she’d had worse.

“You are quickly becoming more trouble than you’re worth, whelp!” Idesta huffed.

Marni smiled up at her through the pain. She hoped her teeth were still red with Lycus’ blood.

“You stupid, stupid girl,” Idesta said, shaking her head. “You’re lucky you’re a pretty thing. But don’t count on that beauty to keep you alive. We can always go back for the other one: your sister, I would guess. From the look of things, she’d be easier to break than you.”

“Pfft,” Marni spat with a roll of her eyes to hide the flicker of fear that threatened to bend her. “You go back there and my angry glowy friend will rip you apart. Noticed that the pointies you left didn’t catch up. All smears in the dirt by now, they are.”

Idesta snorted. “Just the same. There are other places, other pretty little elves. You are expendable.”

Marni returned her snort. “If I’m so spendable, why we having this little chat? Could’ve let Licey take me apart.”

Idesta’s mouth twitched in a hint of a smile. “Call it professional pride and an appreciation for how challenge inspires personal growth. And you _are_ a challenge.” She crouched to Marni’s level, keeping a safe distance. “However, I am first and foremost a business woman. And sometimes that means cutting your losses. If you think I would balk at killing a child, you are sorely mistaken.”

Marni scowled at Idesta. Perhaps backing down was the wisest course of action. Perhaps Roe was right that _accepting_ one’s circumstances was the best way to keep breathing. She could apologize, eat her dinner, and keep her eyes fixed on the ground like the other captives did. But Marni’s stubbornness had already snaked rootlike into her stance of resistance, holding her firmly in place against all sense.  

Idesta seemed to intuit Marni’s resolve. She shook her head and sighed. “Stubborn, foolish girl. You think taking a piece out of my man made you powerful? It meant nothing. Accomplished _nothing_. Perhaps a little demonstration would help you realize how very powerless you really are?” She turned to a sullen looking slaver who stood cross-armed nearby. “Balius, fetch me the other child. I believe it’s time to set up camp for the night.”

Balius nodded and left, returning shortly with a human girl, a few years older than Marni. Her eyes were fixed on the ground as she cried silently. Marni looked up at Idesta, face scrunched in confusion. What was going on? “Bring them,” Idesta said grimly to Balius as she began to walk toward the mouth of the cave.

Balius grabbed Marni and lifted her off the ground. She struggled but he had her firmly controlled. The other girl he pushed forward with his foot on her behind, sending her stumbling with a loud sob. “March,” he barked at her, and she obeyed. They followed Idesta out of the cave and into night.

Once out of the cave, Idesta grabbed the girl tightly around the head and chest. A muffled whimper escaped the girl’s clamped lips. Idesta looked to Marni. “I want you to remember always what your lesson in power and obedience cost this girl, and think carefully before you show yourself to be in need of another.” The girl’s knees buckled when the cold steel of the knife touched her throat, but Idesta held her up. “Keep the whelp’s eyes open,” she added to Balius. “I want her to see every moment of this.”

Balius obeyed, roughly pulling upward on Marni’s eye lids with two grimy fingers as she struggled. The anger that surged in Marni as she watched Idesta cut the human girl’s throat should have been enough to make her bloom into Justice as Anders had. She imagined the rage bursting from her chest, forking in fiery branches that would pierce Idesta and Balius while they stood wide-eyed and terrified of the monster they had loosed. But all she could do was scream and thrash helplessly as she watched the blood drain from the nameless girl. Idesta dropped the twitching form to the ground and turned her back to Marni and Balius, positioning the body between herself and the opening of the cave. She raised her hands and threads of blood slithered from the body to her fingertips. For several minutes the blood continued to run to Idesta until the girl was whiter than the moon above. Idesta pushed her hands outward and a wave of red flowed from her palms in a rush that stopped just short of the mouth of the cave as though an invisible wall had cropped up and was now drenched in red. The wall of red shimmered in the moonlight for a moment and then gradually faded into nothing.

Marni still screamed, her face hot and wet, her throat raw. She felt lightheaded, and her empty stomach lurched dryly as Balius still forced her to look at the dead girl who had been her lesson.

Idesta calmly wiped her knife on a patch of elfroot nearby. “You see now?” she asked calmly. “Your little shows of resistance are nothing. You don’t have power. I can kill or keep you by my whim.” She turned to the lifeless form, startlingly bloodless now. “She could have had a good life as a slave in some great estate. You took that away from her.”

Marni choked on her tears. She’d seen people die before, both quietly and violently. But the thing Idesta had done with the blood, that was new. The sight of it made her own blood burn hotly in sympathy with the poor girl. Marni considered the blame that Idesta had placed on her. It didn’t sit right. _Idesta_ had used the blade to cut her open, _Idesta_ had pulled the threads of blood from her as easily as unraveling an old sweater. It was a story she was telling, a leash of words she thought to use to collar Marni and choke her will. Regardless, Marni _had_ learned a great deal from Idesta’s actions.

Idesta returned her blade to her belt, and Marni eyed it with a need deeper than hunger. “You may release her and return to camp,” Idesta said blandly. “Get some sleep. She and I will clean up here.”

Balius dropped Marni to the ground. Still holding her arms from behind, he leaned in to whisper in her ear: “If you run, she _will_ kill you with no more than a snap of her fingers. Better for you if you do as you’re told.” He let her go and returned to the cave, waving his hand at the entrance before passing through the invisible wall Idesta had made.

Marni thought about running, though her head swam dizzily from screaming and thrashing. She wondered if Idesta _could_ really kill her with a snap of her fingers. What she had done with her victim’s blood had been a more terrifying display of magic than anything Marni had ever seen. Mages Marni had known usually wanted to keep their magic secret, so most didn’t cast spells that frightened others to the point that they might report them to the Templars. Anders was the only mage she’d ever seen use magic to hurt people, and he only hurt people who ought to be hurt. What Idesta had done was wicked, and Marni considered the possibility that maybe wicked magic was stronger than justice magic. Maybe that was why everyone obeyed her without question. In any case, Marni was tired, hungry, and had no death wish, so she stayed put, staring at the corpse, repeating silently to herself that it was Idesta’s fault, not hers.

“Pick up the body,” Idesta said.

Marni swallowed back the sob that was threatening to hiccup out of her chest. She’d touched dead bodies before, but for some reason she balked at touching the girl. “She’s bigger than me,” she said hoarsely. “I won’t be able to lift her.”

“I will help you,” Idesta said, her tone almost warm. She lifted the corpse and draped the front half over Marni’s shoulder, while she supported the legs and pelvis.

Marni’s skin prickled at the closeness of her face to the vacant features of the victim, their cheeks brushing against one another as they marched to the shore. When they reached the cliff overhanging the Waking Sea, Idesta lifted the body off Marni’s back and placed it on the ground beside her.

“Push her over,” Idesta ordered.

Marni got down on her hands and knees. She reached out with her still-bound hands and stroked the dark matted hair from the girl’s eyes, closed her lids, and folded her arms across her chest, as she had seen Anders do to the dead in the clinic. It felt wrong to send this nameless girl into the sea without a word, but Marni had never set foot in a Chantry and she didn’t know a thing about this girl who had died to teach her a lesson, except that she had been really scared. Marni took a deep breath, trying not to cry as she bent to kiss the girl’s forehead, because that maybe seemed like a nice thing to do. “I’m sorry I don’t know your name,” Marni said. “I think maybe you were like my sister; she was afraid too. But she also tried to be good, and maybe you tried to be good too. I’m sorry you died. But… you were afraid, and now you’re not afraid anymore… I think. So that’s good, even though it’s rotten.” Marni frowned, feeling the inadequacy of her words. “I’ll remember you. It’s not enough, but it’s something.” Marni scooted the body, inch by inch, with great care to not disrupt the pose of serenity she’d placed her in, until gravity snatch her from Marni’s hands and pulled her to the sea.

Marni wiped her running nose and eyes as she watched the body being tossed about in the froth of the choppy tide against the base of the cliff.

“Come sit with me,” Idesta’s voice said gently from behind. Marni turned to see her sitting on a fallen log, patting the place beside her with her hand.

Marni didn’t particularly want to sit next to Idesta, but she felt drained and couldn’t summon the will to argue, not with the memory of the girl’s death so fresh in her memory. So she got up and took her place next to the slaver.

“I know this was a difficult lesson to learn. I wish it hadn’t needed to come to this.”

Marni snorted. “Maferath’s balls, you didn’t.”

Idesta sighed. “I can see why you would think that. I’d prefer that all the slaves we transport were content and healthy. People outside the Imperium assume slavery is, by definition, a brutal thing. But it doesn’t have to be that way if slaves just accept the role the Maker has given them. Take you for instance. A pretty elf like you— _if_ you can learn to obey and keep your mouth shut—will most likely be purchased by a noble family or a high end brothel. You’ll be well fed, cared for when you’re sick; you’ll have shelter, a warm bed, clean clothes, and you’ll be safe. The people we take, none of them had those things in their old lives. Did you?”

She didn’t. “I had my sister and Anders,” she said in a small voice in between sniffles.

“Your sister?” Idesta said shaking her head. “The one who abandoned you to save her own skin?”

Marni didn’t want to think about that. “Anders didn’t run. He tore your men apart trying to save me.”

“Anders? You mean the abomination?” Idesta asked with a laugh. “He was a demon and no more able to care for you than a rabid dog could. You’ll make new friends in the Imperium. Friends who…” Idesta trailed off as movement in the distance caught her eye. Three figures walking along the coast. Before Marni could think to scream, Idesta had a knife at her throat, shoved a leather glove into her mouth, and clasped her free hand over Marni’s lips. “Make a sound or try to escape and you’re dead,” she hissed as she dragged Marni into some nearby shrubs.

As the figures drew closer, Marni’s eyes widened; it was Anders with his friends Fenris and Hawke. He had come for her. Marni’s heart raced imagining Justice tear Lycus and the others apart. But her throat tightened as it became clear that Idesta was going to stay right there, hiding with Marni in the bushes while Anders and the others dealt with her people. She would miss everything, and what was worse, Anders might not be able to find out where she’d gone.

After a very long wait, Ander, his friends, and the other captives emerged from the cave, following the path to the very cliff where Marni had just pushed the nameless girl into the water. Anders and Hawke splintered off from the rest of the group, lingering on the edge of the cliff as Anders looked down into the water below. He clasped a hand to his mouth and doubled over, his back shaking with wracking sobs.

Hawke rubbed his back. “Anders… I wish there was something I could say to make this easier,” she said. “I know what it’s like to lose people… and to blame myself for their deaths. Bethany, Carver, Mother. Their loss… it’s all on me. And nothing anyone can say will ever convince me otherwise. So I’m not going to stand her and tell you that it’s not your fault, because hearing that won’t change a thing, and you wouldn’t believe me anyway. You just… you have to move forward and find a way to make it matter. Her life, her death, your failure… make it mean something.”

Marni was blinded by the stinging tears that she couldn’t wipe from her eyes. He thought she was dead. He was staring into the sea, maybe catching glimpses of the nameless girl getting tossed about by the tide far below, thinking it was her. She tried to scream, but the glove, Idesta’s hand, and the sounds of the coast absorbed her voice, and Anders didn’t even glance her way. Idesta reminded her not to make a sound by pressing her blade just hard enough to break the skin of Marni’s throat.

Anders turned to face Hawke. “Maker,” he said breathlessly. “What am I supposed to tell her sister?”

Hawke sighed and shrugged. “The truth. _Without_ the detail.”

Anders nodded and looked back over the sea. “She had such a strong spirit, Hawke.”

“I wish I had known her better,” Hawke said with a sad smile.

“The people in Darktown, so many of them have lost their will to live. But Marni fought every moment. No matter what life threw at her, she was always so… _alive_.”

Idesta’s fingers twitched as Marni’s tears and mucus ran down the back of her hand.

“I knew her since before she was born, delivered her myself. And even then,” he laughed wetly, “she screamed like no babe I’ve ever heard. If there were more people like her in Darktown…” Anders broke down crying again. Hawke put her arm around him and rested her head on his shoulder.

They stood like that for a while, looking out over the sea in silence. When Anders appeared to have regained some calm, Hawke gave his waist a squeeze. “Are you ready to go home?”

He nodded. “Do you mind if I spend the night at your place? After I tell Roe about her sister… I don’t think I can be in the clinic tonight, and… I’d rather not be alone.”

“My couch is your couch,” Hawke said warmly and the two walked off, arm in arm, leaving Marni behind. 

 

 

              


	4. Dorian

       

Dorian drummed his fingers on the table to the rhythm of the music. _Thank the Maker_ for the music. Without the lively arrangement being played by the chamber orchestra, Dorian was quite sure he would have nodded off several times during his companion’s long story concerning just how she had come to find the perfect shoes to go with her custom-made gown. Dorian enjoyed a good shoe as much as the next man, but the agonizing details of how she had come by said shoe were enough to put a cordwainer to sleep.

Her face lit up as she reached what must surely have been the climax of her story. “There, on the central pedestal, was the most darling pair I’ve ever seen!” she said, clapping her hands for emphasis. “Charming buttons like little candies. Delicious! Floral brocade in teal and cream with delicate little stitching in silver. Clearly the work of Orlesian elves with their little nimble fingers. Oh, and it fit like an absolute _dream_ , Dorian! I fell in love on the spot! So, you can imagine my soul-crushing disappointment when the purveyor told me that he had sold another pair just like it to none other than Alecto Sparti just two days before! It took all of my resolve to maintain composure.”

Dorian rubbed his upper lip to conceal a yawn that could be stifled no longer. “How awful,” he drawled with as much energy as he could muster, blinking to keep the blood flowing to his faltering eyelids. It wasn’t his companion’s fault. Conversation after conversation was dull as a lamppost because anything of substance could run the risk of making the young men and women gathered lose sight of the purpose of these events: finding an advantageous match. These tiring affairs were always a performance of class, taste, and ideal femininity, interspersed with the name-dropping of important family connections. The young lady currently chatting with Dorian may well have been as bored with the topic of shoe shopping as he was, but she kept it up because this was simply what one does at a courtier’s ball.

“Having absolutely no luck finding a suitable pair in Minratous,” Dorian’s companion continued, “I sent a letter to my dear aunt Eleni Ponsia in Qarinis.” And _there_ was the name dropping. “She has _spectacular_ taste, and I had the utmost faith that she would find me something stunning.”

Dorian’s eyes began to wander against his will. Most of the couples spread around the room were making a good show of their interest in their companions. Laughter tittered here and there, animated expressions, even the occasional chaste touch of a shoulder or brush of fingertips. Dorian could barely manage a thin smile after two hours of moving from girl to girl every time the bell chimed, only to be treated to the same empty conversations and affectations with a new partner. He scanned the room, considering whose banality he would deign to suffer through next.

As his gaze traveled sleepily from person to person, another pair of eyes—and rather a nice pair at that—met his in the course of their own travels. Rilienus, with skin like fine whiskey and cheekbones that could cut glass, gave him a knowing smirk, sending Dorian’s pulse racing. The smooth curve of Rilienus’ full ochre lips was the stuff of sonnets. And Dorian had attempted to compose more than a couple, the results of which remained hidden under the floorboards of Dorian’s bedroom closet along with an assortment of other sentimental mementoes—a wine cork, a note passed furtively in a handshake, a rose petal—stowed away from prying eyes and the waggling tongues of the Circle’s staff. Dorian wished he could fold that smile up and slip _that_ under the floorboards to take out and enjoy in private moments. Ah, but Rilienus’ face would suffer for the loss, so poems would have to suffice.

“Dorian?” his companion giggled, waving her delicate gloved hand in front of his eyes. “Poor dear, you look positively absent with that dreamy grin. Too much shoe talk driven you batty?”

Dorian refocused on her and laughed in earnest. “Ah, it seems so. I don’t know what’s the matter with me tonight? I can usually handle at least four, five hours of shoes and corsets before my expression begins to glaze.”

“Must be the wine then,” she said with a sweet smile that forgave his rudeness. “I could do with a nap myself. But it’s your turn to talk now, and I’m positively _dying_ to hear everything you know about mustache wax,” she said with enthusiasm that Dorian could not gauge the sincerity of.

A loud high bell rang through the hall, and Dorian’s companion pouted her disappointment. “Alas, my dear lady,” Dorian said with warm levity, “The thrills of mustache grooming will have to wait for another day. This round is up.”

“Ah well, another time then, Master Pavus,” she said, giving him her hand, which Dorian dutifully kissed. “It has been a pleasure. Do look for me during the dancing; I have a feeling you know your way around a ballroom floor.”

“Of course, Lady… uh…” Dorian’s mind drew a blank. He could not for the life of him remember the young woman’s name, so he just smiled and gave a quick bow. “It would be my pleasure.”

The young woman’s smile tightened, losing the warmth she had graced him with a moment before, and Dorian was sure she would later be calling him all manner of unflattering names to her friends to punish him for forgetting her name.  She gave him an icy curtsey and walked away, stunning shoes clicking purposefully against the polished floor as she went. How very disappointed in him she was.

After two more rounds of numbing conversation with eligible young noble women and another hour of dancing –during which the offended young woman pointedly avoided him—the chorus of bells at last chimed to indicate the end of the evening. Thank the Maker. Most of the attendants began milling about socially, searching for that one special someone who had sparked their interest. Dorian, on the other hand, made a beeline for the door, hoping to make it out of the hall before any young woman cornered him and began edging for an invitation to dinner. Thankfully, by stealth or lack of interest on the part of the ladies, Dorian made it quickly out the back entrance and into the cool, refreshing night air. He took a deep relaxing breath and released it in a contented sigh.

“A sigh like that, someone might think you just escaped from the gallows, Dorian,” said Rilienus’ melodious tenor from behind him, sending a pleasant shiver across Dorian’s skin. Rilienus walked to Dorian’s side, and put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

Dorian massaged his own neck, rolling his head. “Tell me honestly: Do the noose marks show?”

Rilienus laughed. “Only to me, I think.” They walked side by side into the backstreets the alley fed into. “So, any promising prospects tonight? Any of them capture your eye or your heart? Did you, by chance, meet the future Lady Pavus?” Rilienus teased.

“Heh, hardly by chance! My mother informed me that if I did not leave this party with at least three names of prospective brides, she would drag me back to Qarinus by my earlobe and take care of the matter herself.”

“And who are the three names?” Rilienas asked thrusting his hands into his pockets as he kicked a loose bit of gravel down the walkway.

“Are you joking? Of the dozen ladies I chatted with this evening, I’m lucky if I can even remember a _single_ name. They all sort of blur together in a smudge of buttons and lace. And they’re no more enthralled with me, I can tell you.”

Rilienus gaped. “Now you’re the one who’s joking! Dorian, half the girls there tonight came specifically to _meet_ _you_.”

Dorian laughed incredulously. “And why would they want to do that? I drink too much, I spend my nights off and about doing Maker-knows-what, and I’m perfectly rude! No one in their right mind should want to marry me!”

Rilienus rolled his eyes. “You’re the son of a well-regarded—and obscenely wealthy—Magister and the Archon’s own niece, the prized student of Magister Alexius, and now a newly minted enchanter of the Minrathous Circle. With a pedigree like that, you’re virtually guaranteed a seat in the Magisterium. You could even become Archon.”

“You sound like my mother,” Dorian groaned.

“You also have a splendid bum and positively irresistible bedroom eyes.”

“Well, _that_ sounded considerably less like my mother,” Dorian said, a tingle of electric heat tickling through him at the realization that Rilienus liked his bum and eyes. “ _She_ tends to focus on the regal arch of my nose and the clever angle of my jaw.”

Rilienus poked Dorian in the ribs, laughing. “Yes, all of that too. You’re a catch, Dorian. Any one of those girls would marry you in an instant.”

Dorian grimace. “Pity, then, that I hated none of them well enough to be so cruel.”

Rilienus rolled his eyes. “Believe me, I do understand; I feel ill every time I think of getting married. But you can’t stay a bachelor forever, D.”

Dorian snorted. “Actually, I can. My very favorite Tevinter law makes it quite clear that no citizen can be compelled to wed or bed against their will.”

“True. The law _also_ says that a bachelor cannot inherit.”

Dorian shrugged. “They can’t all be winners.”

Rilienus grabbed Dorian’s shoulders, stopping him in his tracks. “Are you being serious? Are you actually planning to refuse to marry? Do you have any idea what that could cost you?”

Dorian smiled wryly. “I have an idea, yes. Down to the exact coin amount, in fact.”

“People will start to suspect. If anyone found out… you could lose your position at the Circle, never mind completely ruining your chance at a seat in the Magisterium!”

Dorian shook him off. “My but you’re dramatic tonight. Nobody jumps to such conclusions. Everyone simply supposes that I’m especially discerning, as a man of my ‘pedigree’ should be.”

“For now!” Rilienus said, a little louder than Dorian preferred. “But how long will that hold up? A choosey bachelor of thirty years is nothing to crow about. But a choosey bachelor of forty years? Fifty? And when your parents die and you can’t access your inheritance? Who is going to believe that you’re just a man of _discerning taste_ then?”

“Do keep your voice down!” Dorian hissed. “I am aware that questions will be raised eventually. However, I should have my seat on the Magisterium before then. Then I won’t _need_ my father’s blighted money any longer. And no one would accuse a Magister of being a sodomist without some rather compelling proof.”

“Which your political adversaries will undoubtedly find! You’re discrete, Dorian, but you’re far from chaste. The right bribe here, a disgruntled servant there. You’ll be found out if you give them enough reason to look.”

Dorian sighed. He recognized the truth in what Rilienus said. It kept him awake, filled him with dread every time he snuck out of his Circle apartment in the dead of night, following the back alleys to the secret meeting places where men such as him stole moments of honest feeling and passion in the midst of lives that forced them to lie with every stifled breath.

“Just find a wife, D. Someone who will benefit from the status your alliance gives her. If any questions come up, she’ll vouch for you to protect her own position, and you can carry on as you please. No one will ever be the wiser.”

A deep swell of revulsion rose in the pit of Dorian’s stomach. “Is that what you plan to do? Lead a double life, pretending that you’re just what everyone wants you to be, while all the while you’re screaming on the inside?”

Rilienus scowled. “How is that any different from what we’re doing now? How is agreeing to marry some beautiful Altus any more of a lie than telling your parents that you just haven’t found the ‘right girl’ yet? The only difference between us, Dorian, is that you’ll eventually be found out, and I won’t.”

Dorian shook his head, exhausted with even thinking about continuing to hide, all the possible ways he could be ‘found out,’ and the consequences that would follow. He’d been worrying over it all for nearly half his life now, and it was starting to feel like too much. “Men like us… we can’t live in the shadows forever,” he said heavily.

Rilienus frowned, his eyes glinting copper pools in the moonlight. “It’s the only place there is for us, D. Better to live in the shadows than to be destitute, or worse.”

Dorian wasn’t so sure any more. “Perhaps,” he said softly. “But ultimately I’d prefer a spot in the sun with everyone else. Maker knows there’s room enough.”

Rilienus nodded. “You’ll get no argument from me. But it’s not going to change. Best we just accept the way things are.”

Dorian flared his nostrils. “You’re really going to do it then? Play the dutiful citizen, marry, reproduce, spend your entire life pretending?”

Rilienus shrugged. “It’s livable. Hoping for more than that is kidding yourself.”

Dorian had no illusion he and Rilienus could live happily ever after—he was a dalliance, nothing more—but thinking of the beautiful man marrying and settling into a farce of domestic bliss made Dorian feel the sudden and irresistible need for a drink. Or Several.

 


	5. A Wild Tongue

Idesta and Marni were alone. Idesta’s people were dead, her slaves released. She had only Marni. And Marni had no one. Anders had come for her, had fought his way to her, had killed for her, and had wept over her, which was far more than she’d come to expect from anyone. But now he was gone, and he wouldn’t be coming back. He would move on with his life, because that was what people do when someone dies, and he would tell Roe to do the same. They would remember her or forget her, but either way, they wouldn’t look for her again.

Watching Anders walk away with Hawke, Marni buried her hope for rescue, a hope that had died only moments after it had first sparked. Marni was familiar with the knot of grief that wound itself into the pit of her stomach. Anders and Roe were added to the other brambles of loss that itched and stung like rashweed whenever—by choice or distraction—Marni wandered through those fraught corners of her memory.

Despite her regret at likely never seeing Anders or her sister again, Darktown was not a home one could become attached to, and walking through woods and plains, and over streams and hills allowed Marni a strange sort of freedom that sent an undeniable thrill of wonder and novelty down her spine and limbs. Her bound wrists and occasionally bound ankles and mouth—depending on Idesta’s mood—contrasted with the boundless wild and the infinite sky of a world unmarked by walls and ceiling.

Marni was well aware that she was a captive of a cruel and dangerous person; she would not forget or forgive the sight of Idesta draining the nameless girl, nor the feel of Idesta’s blade at her throat and the taste of leather in her mouth as Marni was forced to helplessly watch Anders walk away. But once Marni understood the particular threat posed by Idesta, the threat was manageable, and no more dangerous than the Templars or the Carta had been in Darktown. Marni had learned early that all people in power wanted something from those beneath them. The Templars wanted fear and respect; the Carta and Coterie wanted people to stay quiet and keep out of their way; Idesta wanted browbeaten obedience. Fulfill those desires, and one could enjoy relative safety. For the most part. In addition to the desire for respect, silence, and obedience, there was a dark hunger among those in power: the wish to be defied. The Templars wanted to be spat on occasionally and the Carta excitedly awaited the bold misstep of the odd snitch. In those moments of transgression, appetites for violence could be sated and the powerful would affirm their supremacy—to onlookers as well as themselves—with every brutal strike, every broken bone, every choked cry for mercy. Idesta was no different. Marni had seen it in Idesta as she’d slit the throat of the nameless girl, her cheeks flushing in a glow of twisted satisfaction as the life drained from her victim while Marni had watched and thrashed in horror and rage.

With Anders’ rescue of the other captives, Marni was both Idesta’s only means to sate her sick appetites for cruelty and the sole potential for return on the investment of her slaving expedition. If some of Idesta’s men had survived they could have more than replenished their stock of human cargo before returning to Tevinter, but as things were, whatever price Marni fetched in what Idesta called “the Markets” was the extent of the “good” that would come out of this bloody venture to the Free Marches. What all of this came down to for Marni is that Idesta was not likely to kill her and forfeit the potential for recompense, no matter the visceral satisfaction such brutality promised. However, Idesta was _very_ eager and willing to practice minor acts of cruelty and violence that would supposedly teach Marni her place, thus increasing her value to prospective buyers.

Marni had very little experience with the concept of value, having never had more than a few copper coins to her name. Bread had value and blankets had value; blankets were more expensive than bread, but were also less necessary for survival in Darktown. So did that make bread more valuable? Or was it the blankets? Similarly, Anders had warned her on multiple occasions to be careful with the prophet’s laurel because it was very expensive and hard to come by. It was also used in far fewer things than the plentiful elfroot. So, while prophet’s laurel was a more treasured ingredient, they could largely do without it, while if their elfroot stores dwindled, they wouldn’t be able to make the most needed potions. It was all very confusing.

Thinking of her own value left Marni no less perplexed. To start, she couldn’t imagine how anyone could have a use for her that someone else couldn’t readily fill. Elven girls were as plentiful as elfroot, and—judging by the way humans in Kirkwall treated them—not nearly as important. Further, Marni’s value was not stable. When Marni tried to escape, Idesta would raise her arms and send white hot pain screaming through Marni’s body, saying that she wasn’t worth the cost of feeding her. “Keep up this nonsense, and I’ll be better off killing you here than taking you the rest of the way.” At other times Idesta would stare at her and whistle while a wicked smile played on her lips. “Young beauty like you, if you can learn your place, you’ll fetch quite a sum at the market. If we’re lucky, I might just break even on this whole mess.” Marni wasn’t sure if she wanted to be valuable or not, but she understood that her value was presently the only thing keeping her alive. So she was determined to, at the very least, keep her value above what it cost Idesta to feed her.

“How would you figure my value… in loaves of bread?” Marni asked, examining the piece of stale bread in her hands.

“What?” Idesta said with a smirk.

“When you sell me,” Marni said slowly, not sure what wasn’t clear about her question, “how much bread you s’pose you could buy with the coin you make?”

“I won’t be buying bread with that coin,” Idesta said with a snort. “I’ll be paying off debts to the people who funded this venture. Or paying them down, anyway.”

Marni rolled her eyes, not sure what debt or ventures were. “But pretend you were. How much bread could you buy?”

“Just shut up and eat your breakfast.”

Marni took a big mouthful and fought the urge to spit it at Idesta. “Fine then,” she said with her mouth full. “How much is a debt?”

Idesta leaned forward, her nostrils flaring. “You want me to gag you today?”

Marni shook her head. Of all Idesta’s minor tortures, she hated being gagged the most.

“Then keep quiet and eat.”

Marni scowled but obeyed, storing away her anger and questions for later. She waited until they were on the road again before pressing Idesta further. “What makes you think your Vint buddies will pay big coin for me?”

“’Your type is in fashion right now,” Idesta said simply.

Marni twisted her face up in confusion. “Huh? What you mean ‘in fashion?’”

Idesta sighed and her eyelids fluttered as they often did when Marni was in a curious mood. “It means your type is sought after. And people are willing to pay a lot to add someone like you to their collections.”

“And what’s ‘my type?’ You mean elves?”

Idesta looked over at Marni, perhaps trying to gauge if her questions were sincere or if she was just trying to be annoying. “Pretty slaves always fetch more coin than the homely ones. Magisters and the Altus class like to be surrounded by beauty, even if that beautiful creature is just the one emptying their shit pot every morning.”

Marni shrugged. “What’s pretty got to do with anything?”

“Nobles spend a great deal of coin carefully selecting perfect items to fill their estates and craft a desired ambience, so everyone can recognize and envy the supreme quality of their taste; they wouldn’t want the entire aesthetic to be marred by an ugly child dusting the mantle.”

 “Whatever all that means,” Marni grumped.

“It means,” Idesta said with a tight smile, “that slaves are selected with an eye for how they would look standing next to a prized sculpture or ornate rug. If you clash with the décor, they won’t buy you.”

“So they pay big for me because I match the drapes?” Marni said incredulously. “Sounds daft.”

Idesta laughed. “Perhaps. But it serves me just fine. Delicate lanky builds have been popular for a while, and females are generally more in demand than males. So you already have those things in your favor. Fashion has taken a turn toward richer colors lately, and the light skinned, light haired type hasn’t been selling like they used to. You on the other hand will fetch a bundle… if you can keep your mouth shut and stay still for more than ten seconds at a time.”

“Pfft,” Marni said, waving off Idesta’s concerns. “Ten’s easy.”

Idesta fixed Marni with a withering glare. “This isn’t a joke. If you know what’s best for you, you’ll behave yourself in the market. The nobles won’t want you if they think you’re a trouble maker.”

Marni stuck out her tongue and blew a wet, rude raspberry. “And why would _I_ want the nobles? They can wipe their own butts, and dust the mantles themselves with their fine foppy hair, for all I care.”

“There are far worse positions than tending house for a noble. The brothels aren’t bad, but they’ll be wanting to get their money’s worth out of you as soon as they can find someone willing to pay. And there is _always someone_ willing to pay. The work houses will work you to the bone, starve you, freeze you. Most die young. But even the work houses have standards; they won’t want you if they think you can’t be broken. And if the nobles, the brothels, and the work houses won’t pay, you’ll go to the black markets.”

Marni furrowed her brow. “What’s the black markets?”

Idesta grinned wickedly. “It’s where blood mages buy you for your blood, eyes, and any other parts they think might be useful.”

Marni face went ashen and her stomach turned. “Blood mages? Like you did to the girl on the coast,” she said softly.

“Exactly. We don’t believe in waste in Tevinter. If you can’t prove yourself useful to us alive, we’ll find a use for you dead.”

A buzz of panic thrilled through Marni. She had never even seen a mantle, let alone dusted one, or so much as set foot in a brothel, and she doubted she’d done anything that would be asked of her in a workhouse either. “How do I prove myself useful?” she asked, afraid to admit to Idesta that she probably wasn’t useful at all.

“Listen to directions, do what you’re told, and don’t make mistakes.” She gave Marni a serious glare. “And behave yourself. That shit you pulled with Lycus… You try something like that in Tevinter and you’ll be dead within hours. Even the trouble you’ve been giving me…” Idesta shook her head gravely. “You need to learn to bite that sharp little tongue of yours, or sooner or later, you’ll cross the wrong person and find yourself in the black market, being sold off for parts.”

Marni gave her tongue a few light bites. Biting it off entirely might have been easier than keeping it in check. She was cursed with a wild tongue. She’d imagine it coiled snake-like behind her teeth, rattling menacingly at anyone who came too near. Or she’d picture it crouched in the well of her mouth like the feral cats Anders used to put milk out for, striking with fury and speed whenever threatened or annoyed. As sure as she was that feral cats could not be tamed no matter how many saucers of milk you offered them or bits of string you dragged across their paws, she was sure that a wild tongue could not be kept quiet for long. Her anger would spark, and her tongue would strike. She’d be lucky to make it through a year of slavery in Tevinter. But the thought of having her eyes plucked out or her veins opened, humans bidding for her bits…

Marni swallowed back her fear and gave her tongue a few more trial bites.


	6. Justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter a while ago and published it on FF and have been a bit behind posting chapters on AO3. Putting it up now, even as it was written a while ago, puts it in conversation with current events in the U.S. The mage dilemma in Dragon Age: II has always struck me as being about incarceration and policing, an issue I care very deeply about and part of why I am so drawn to that game and Anders specifically. I view Anders' actions at the end of the game as abhorrent, but also feel great compassion for the desperate conditions from which they emerged. He is a character that has my sympathy always, even as his actions chill me. If you are still struggling with the recent events regarding police and violence and the conversations around those events, this chapter may be unsettling or it may offer some useful processing. I wish everyone peace in these difficult times.

 Marni had been gone for over a week, and still, alone in his clinic, Anders found himself opening his mouth to tell her excitedly about the orange tabby he’d spotted by the clinic door or to call her over so he could demonstrate how to make a healing poultice that also numbed pain. But the words would die on his lips as he remembered with a sickening jolt that she wasn’t there. Despite her absence, there were traces of her everywhere: her threadbare oversized sweater draped over the back of his chair; the fine cut on the deep mushrooms she’d diced and spread evenly across a screen for air drying; the cheery chalk drawings she’d done along the walls to brighten the clinic; the occasional imprint left behind in the dirt floor by a small bare foot. Marni had made herself a part of the clinic in her year as his assistant, and now it felt wretchedly empty and eerily haunted by her present absence.

Anders tried to focus on his work. He and two other rebels would be infiltrating the Gallows that night to guide a young mage to a safe house through the sewers. He was preparing salves for their mission, or trying to anyway. A song Marni used to sing while she worked was lodged in his head, looping in her airy soprano, and repeatedly pulling his attention from the herbs he was busy distilling.

_She was a distraction_ , Justice hissed in the back of his mind.

Anders tensed at the unwelcome thought and the truth of it. _She was a bright light in the midst of the choking darkness that had settled on Kirkwall. She was a daily reminder that not everything had been lost, that there was more to Kirkwall than the hopeless feud between Templars and mages_.

_As I said, she was a distraction_ , Justice rebutted.

Anders snapped, _How can you dismiss her like that? What happened to her should matter to you! She should matter to you! She was a victim of injustice as much as the mages are!_   

_I agree,_ Justice said plainly. _And now she is dead. We have exacted justice in blood from the slavers who killed her. There is nothing more to be done. We cannot continue to allow her to distract us from our task._

Anders shook his head, cut by the cold turn of Justice’s thoughts. _His_ thoughts. _It isn’t so simple for me_. _I can’t just stop feeling on command._

_Then allow me to guide us_ , Justice boomed loudly, and Anders felt the spirit’s presence push heavily on his thoughts. _You lack conviction. I do not._

Anders laughed in spite of himself. _I lack conviction? I’ve been here, committed every step of the way, the same as you. How do you suppose I lack conviction?_

_The part of you that is not_ us _. The part of you that ran from the Circle and ran from the Wardens, the part of you that wished to be a father to that child, the part of you that still dreams that Hawke might yet choose you over the elf. You seek out distractions; you_ wish _to be turned from our cause_.

Anders bristled. It was an old argument, one that had halted him at Hawke’s threshold more than once, one that had prevented him from becoming too personally involved in Marni’s life. _You are quick to draw distinctions between us whenever Hawke or Marni are under discussion_ , Anders seethed with familiar bitterness. _But as soon as the topic of your particular obsessions come up, suddenly it’s ‘our cause’ this, and ‘we must see justice done’ that._

_They are not my obsessions; we joined, and our causes became one. But it is human weakness that—_

_Yes, yes,_ Anders cut him off with a roll of his eyes. _I’m weak. You know, I can still remember the good old days when the worst that could come of my weakness was an ill-chosen bed mate or setting the odd Templar on fire. Simple weakness never hurt anybody back then_.

_The Templars._

Anders snorted. _Come now, they don’t count. Besides, I only ever singed them a little… Until you. Now we’re practically drowning in blood, and not all of it Templar’s_.

_It is necessary,_ Justice dismissed coolly, _and there is more to come. We must steel our self._

Anders frowned as the familiar dread—which had become as constant a companion as Justice of late—turned nauseously in his gut. _I… don’t know_.

_You must know_ , Justice pressed, _or all that we have worked for, all the suffering that the mages here have endured will have been for naught. Justice must be done._

_But at what price?_ Ander’s asked, a panicked edge to his thoughts. He knew the answer, but facing it still made his stomach drop like a stone.

_A price we will pay,_ Justice said firmly.

_Not just us! Everyone in the Chantry… innocents will die if we follow through._

_There are no innocents!_ Justice boomed, and Anders had to fight to maintain control as the spirit’s wrath burned his skin and eyes. _Their inaction condemns them as surely as if they wielded the sunburst brand with their own wretched hands!_

_I… I know,_ Anders said shakily. _But Hawke still thinks the Grand Cleric can be swayed. Perhaps if we give her more time…_

_Hawke has failed. Her belief that she can defend mages by cooperating with the forces that abuse them is naïve and counter to our cause. While she discusses politics and reform with the clerics, more of your people’s minds are sundered every day. Hawke does not share our conviction!_

Anders shook his head. _Hawke has a responsibility to defend the people of Kirkwall. She only hopes to limit the bloodshed of open hostilities. You know that Meredith will not take open rebellion in stride; she’d burn Kirkwall to the ground before seeing the mages free._

_A necessary cost. The Circle_ must _be abolished and the Templar Order broken. Peaceful means will not see mages freed from their shackles. And Meredith must pay for the injustices she has orchestrated._

_And what of our friends?_ Anders asked as anticipated grief shuddered in his chest.

_What of them? If they oppose us and defend Meredith, they will fall as rightly as the Templars._

_No!_ Anders started. The possibility of Justice, of him, killing his friends had not occurred to Anders. Even if he forced the rebellion through an act they didn’t condone, he was sure Hawke would never ally with Meredith. And the rest of their friends would certainly never stand against Hawke, no matter their personal politics. No, they would not need to fall to Justice’s wrath. Not directly. What troubled Anders was what his actions might otherwise cost Hawke and their friends through their association with him.

_They must not distract us from our course,_ Justice pushed, knowing the content of Anders’ thoughts. _We are building a world in which mages need not cower or die at the whims of the Templars. It is a world Hawke wants. She lacks the vision and conviction to see it through, but she would not think her life wasted if lost in attaining the Justice our actions will promise._   

Anders, in spite of the sickening effect of the thought, believed Justice was right. They would initiate the rebellion, push Meredith and Orsino to their breaking point, remove the “stabilizing” force of the Grand Cleric, and Hawke would defend the mages against Meredith’s fury. And once Kirkwall proved that the oppressive force of the Templars could be resisted and defeated, the other Circles across Thedas would rise up in kind. No matter how Hawke would judge Anders’ actions, she would surely agree that the world he was building was better than the one that had forced her and her family into a lifetime of hiding and running.

While Hawke had consistently rejected violent tactics in her attempts at resolving the Templar threat, Anders believed she knew in her heart that it was becoming increasingly necessary. Meredith had threatened to cage her for her support of the mages only days earlier, and Anders had seen Hawke’s eyes spark with the recognition the Templars could not be reasoned with, not by her and not by the Grand Cleric. As long as Meredith was in command, every mage in Kirkwall stood on a precipice, tranquility or death a hair’s breadth away. Hawke knew it, but Justice was right: Hawke’s sense of responsibility to the people of Kirkwall shook her conviction and prevented her from acting, even when she knew that the Templars must be struck down.

She wouldn’t condone his actions. But perhaps, one day, she might feel some gratitude that he was willing to do what she could not. Once mages were free, she would recognize that the Templars had forced his hand, that he had spent eight years hoping desperately for an alternative, putting his faith in Hawke’s push for peace, while the Order became increasingly violent and oppressive. She would recognize that he had done what was necessary, what was just, what she would have been forced to do herself if he had not acted first. He would take the consequences of starting the rebellion upon himself so she wouldn’t have to. Hawke would understand that someday.    


	7. Cumberland

Marni and Idesta had been trekking through the lower climbs of the mountains in the direction Idesta had named “West” for a week before Marni spotted the glint of sunlight on domed copper roofs. She squinted against the glare and wrinkled her nose, trying to make out the distant buildings. “Is that Tevinter?” she asked, both hoping it was and dreading that it would be.

Idesta snorted without mirth. “Don’t I wish it,” she said blandly. “It’s Cumberland. Navarra. We have a long way yet before we’ll be in Tevinter, and even longer before we get to Minrathous.”

“Who’s Minratoes?” Marni asked, imagining a crooked old slave broker who’d look her up and down, and check her teeth to decide if she was fit to sell. She bet he’d smell like cabbage and sick.

“Not a who,” Idesta growled. “It’s the capital of Tevinter.”

“What’s _capital_?” Marni pressed, with an exasperation to match Idesta’s.

Idesta’s nostril’s flared and her eyelids fluttered in that tell-tale way Marni had begun to take as a cue she was about to get smacked for talking too much. “ _Fasta vass_ ,” she spat. “It’s the center of trade and government in Tevinter. Alright? Now enough with the incessant questions!”

Marni folded her arms and huffed, wanting to cuss and shout back. “If you didn’t use such big nothing words, I wouldn’t have to ask,” she muttered under her breath.

Idesta’s staff came quick and sharp to connect smartly with Marni’s shoulder. “You need to figure out that not everything is for you to know,” she barked while Marni rubbed her stinging shoulder and bit back tears in her pain and anger. “I’m not here to teach you the geography of Thedas or give you vocabulary lessons. The only thing you need to learn is how to obey and bite your tongue.”

Marni whirled on her, face twisted and red. “And how am I supposed to know if I’m obeying right if I don’t know what’s _capital_ , _cabulary_ , and whatever?” she said, regretting her tone even as she couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. “The way you lot talk, you say ‘hivledid the dwagmadoor’ when ‘stir this pot’ would do! Talking plain would save you breath and me smacks.”

Idesta snorted and waved her hand. The motion sent a magical force like a hurled stone into Marni’s chest, knocking her off her feet and gasping for air. While Marni struggled to breathe on the ground, Idesta rubbed her eyes and shook her head. “ _Festis bei umo canavarum,_ she muttered. “‘Darktown scum are easy pickings,’ he said. ‘Life has already taught them their place,’ he said. Stupid piss pot. Should have just kept to doing business in the Anderfels. At least they’re grateful to get away from the heat, dust, and darkspawn.” She sighed. “But you? You’re too dense to see the boon this is for you.”

Marni didn’t have the breath to ask what _boon_ and _Anderfels_ was.

Idesta knelt down close to Marni and an expression that might pass as warmth softened her face. “I wish I could make you understand that this scenario could benefit us both. You should count yourself lucky that I took you away from the sewers of Kirkwall, away from people who would hurt or abandon you. Slaves can have a good life,” she repeated for the umpteenth time. “And if you balk at being a slave, you don’t have to stay one forever; slaves win their freedom every day in Tevinter, rise up from their lowly beginnings to make something of themselves.”

Marni seethed, wishing she could poison Idesta with the dripping venom she was sure was coursing through her own boiling blood. But she stayed quiet, knowing that Idesta was always cruelest after she thought herself kind. So Marni bit her wild tongue and nodded curtly.

“Good,” Idesta said, getting up and lifting Marni to her feet. “From Cumberland we can take a barge up the River Cumber. That will save us some time. After that, it will have to be the Imperial Highway up to the coast.”

Marni wanted to ask what a barge was and how long the rest of the trip would take, her blistered feet throbbing at the thought of more walking. But she kept quiet, knowing the answer was meaningless. She was stuck with Idesta until she was dead or sold.

Their arrival in Cumberland lifted Marni’s mood some. The port city was a dazzling sight of tall buildings with ornate facades and copper roofs that shone like beacons in the sunlight. The cobblestone streets bustled with people energetically talking, laughing, and trading. Under silk canopies, traders called out their wares to passersby, selling jewelry, wares of clay and tin, fruits of every color, and seafood so fresh that it had none of that death smell Marni associated with fish in Kirkwall. At the nearby docks, ships of all sizes, some stretching taller than the buildings, rocked in the gentle pitch of the sea as sailors and pirates stumbled drunkenly on and off deck. Marni had spent her entire life without setting foot out of Darktown, so she was unsure how Cumberland compared to Kirkwall’s port. She wondered grimly where they kept their own Forgotten people and if she was walking over their heads now.

“Stay close,” Idesta barked at Marni, grabbing her arm roughly every time she got distracted by a new sight. “I haven’t put up with you all this time just to have you snatched up by pirates or rival slavers now.”

Marni turned her gaze to pirates singing and guffawing on the deck of a nearby ship, thinking they would be a big step up from Idesta’s company as long as they kept their parts to themselves.

“Come on!” Idesta grumped wrenching Marni’s arm painfully and pulling her along at a clipping pace away from the docks.

They left the frenetic energy of the port for the back alleys winding tightly through the shadows of the tall buildings. The din of the docks and market died down as they followed the darkened twists and turns. The occasional sullen stranger squeezed past Idesta and Marni, the alley too narrow for easy two-way traffic. Marni tried to keep track of the turns they were making: left, straight, straight, straight, right, straight, left… but she lost track. Not that it mattered, Idesta never let her out of sight, so slipping away and tracking back to the docks wasn’t really an option.

After what felt like hours, Idesta halted and put a controlling hand on the back of Marni’s neck. Marni raised her shoulders in silent protest. “In here,” Idesta said, nodding to a nearby doorway, painted red. The windows of the establishment were painted black so light escaped. Above the door hung a sign that read The Wooden Wench, all words that Marni knew, but the combination struck her as nonsensical. Idesta turned Marni’s face up to look her in the eyes. “I want no trouble from you in here. Don’t say a word, and don’t try to wander. You look at the floor and nothing else. You hear me?”

Marni wrinkled her nose and narrowed her eyes but nodded. Idesta pushed her head down so her chin touched her chest awkwardly. “Oi!” Marni yelled. “I got it! Don’t need to get rough.”

“Move,” Idesta said, pushing Marni forward with one hand, while holding the door open with another.

When the door opened, Marni gagged on the smell of stale whiskey and smoke. Once inside, she kept her head down, but lifted her eyes to get a glimpse of her surroundings. The Wooden Wench was dimly lit by a few lanterns, leaving plenty of shadowed spots where hooded figures hunched quietly keeping their eyes on the door. A wooden bar stretched the length of the right wall, and a Dwarf behind the bar nodded in their direction. Idesta steered Marni toward one of the shadowy corners where a hooded man sat picking his fingernails with a small blade.

“Was expecting you days ago,” the man grumbled as Idesta pushed Marni onto the bench across from him and took a seat herself. “Run into trouble?”

Idesta’s nostril’s flared. “To put it mildly.”

“New pet?” he asked sticking his chin out in Marni’s direction.

Marni growled and imagined flaying the man with his little knife.

“Should have left her with your boys. Draws attention you coming in here with a kid.”

Idesta snorted. “Believe me, I would have if it were an option. The do-gooder Champion of Kirkwall decided to go for a beachside stroll, kill my people, and steal our cargo. I was lucky to get away with this one. Had to hike it through the Vimmarks to make sure we wouldn’t be picked up by the guard or Hawke’s band of pests. Never bothering with Kirkwall again, I can tell you. I don’t care how good coin is; too much damn risk.”

The man whistled through his teeth. “This is it then?” he asked. “One scrawny she-elf?”

“Yes,” Idesta sighed. “I expect her to sell for top coin, if I can break her in properly. Still, not exactly the haul I was planning for.”

The man chewed on his tongue and stretched his lips across the plane of his teeth. “I’m sure it don’t need saying, Idesta, but my rate don’t change just because your luck went south.”

“What?” Idesta hissed, leaning across the table. “Your rate was thirty per fifteen head. You can’t expect me to pay that for me and one kid!”

“My rate was for _up to_ fifteen for thirty,” he said slowly, his fingers tightening around the little blade. “Thirty is the minimum. Anything less, and risk of ferrying slaves isn’t worth the pay off.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Idesta whispered frantically. “I can’t take her on a passenger or cargo boat!”

He shook his head. “Not my problem. That’s for you to figure out.”

Marni stiffened at the sight of Idesta blanching. If transporting her was added to the price her prospective value was being weighed against, she suspected her chance of making it to the markets alive was slim.

“Everett, please,” said Idesta weakly. “Do you know anyone who might strike me a deal? I’m in the hole as it is.”

Everett leaned back slowly. “Best bet is to sell her off here and cut your losses.”

Idesta relaxed a little. “Who’s looking to buy.”

Marni’s ears perked. Sell her here? A thrill of fear and excitement shivered through her body, making her skin prickle.

Everett stroked his jaw thoughtfully. “Other Vints come through often enough. But they won’t likely pay much, and you’ll have to pay for boarding in the meantime. Best bet? The Antivan pirates. They usually willing to buy the young ones, especially the ones with some bite; they know the Crows will pay good enough for ‘em back home. And it never hurts to stay on the Crow’s good side by throwing them the odd whelp.”

So she might be going with the pirates after all, Marni thought to herself. She didn’t know who or what the Crows were. Surely, though, if they liked bite from their charges, she’d be better off with them than she was chewing through her tongue with Idesta.

“Right. Right,” Idesta muttered, nodding.

Everett looked pointedly at three humans by the bar. One of whom was pinching the other two’s bums to everyone’s enthusiastic delight. “They’re from the Espuma de los Amantes, bound for Antiva city.”

Idesta raised an eyebrow and shook her head. “That’s their ship name?” Everett nodded. “Antivans,” she said with exasperation.

He shrugged. “It’s your best bet.”

“Fine,” Idesta said standing up. She grabbed Marni by the arm and pulled her in close to whisper. “Feel free to be your charming bratty self. The last thing the Crows will want is a mouse.”

Marni narrowed her eyes. “You mean look up and loose my tongue?”

Idesta smiled wickedly. “And squirm and complain to your heart’s content.”

Marni mirrored Idesta’s grin and promptly stomped on the mage’s toes with all her little might and tried to wrench away from her vice grip. Idesta kept hold and dragged her to where the pirates stood, all eyes on Marni’s fruitless tantrum.

“Hello gentlemen,” Idesta said with uncommon sweetness.

“My lady?” said the pincher cautiously, in a thick accent.

“Word has it that you are from the… Espuma.”

He bowed deeply. “Captain Fernando Delgado, at your humble service.”

“Andraste’s tits!” Marni shouted as she tried to pull away, “You’re hurting me!”

“Stop it, cur!” Idesta snapped, yanking sharply on Marni’s wrist, the resultant pain making her cry out in earnest. Idesta turned her attention back to the men. “I find myself with surplus cargo, and limited options for offloading her. I hear you sometimes buy unruly children for the Crows, and I wonder if we might strike a mutually beneficial arrangement?”

As much as Marni was glad for the chance to be free of Idesta, she chafed under the appraising eyes of the pirate captain who circled her slowly, looking her over. “How old is she?” he asked.

“Seven years,” Idesta said.

“I’m eight!” Marni snapped. “Been eight for months.” Idesta glared at her.

The Captain nodded thoughtfully. “It is a fine age, and she has the fire the Crows so love to tame to their purposes.” He stroked his jaw, continuing to look Marni over. “I’ll pay 20 for her.”

Idesta snorted. “Are you joking? You’ll get four times that from the crows. Fifty.”

The Captain grimaced. “There is no guarantee the Crows will buy her. They’ve been experiencing… internal struggles of late, and may not have the resources to invest in the training of one so raw.”

“She isn’t raw. She killed one of my men, severed an artery in his thigh and then bit clean through his nose before we knew what was happening.”

Marni smiled broadly, wishing that Idesta’s story was the truth of Lycus demise.

The Captain raised an eyebrow. “This little one, killed a grown man? Perhaps she is too dangerous for my crew to transport.”

“Keep her shackled or locked up in a crate. She’s vicious but she’s still a child. I’m sure your men can handle her.”

“Hmm,” the Captain said thoughtfully. “Fifty is still too high. Thirty-five.”

“Forty or I’d be better off waiting for another slaver to buy her up.”

The Captain kneeled on the ground very close to Marni. He smiled brightly. “What do you say, little bird? Would you rather go to Tevinter to become a nobleman’s plaything or come to Antiva to join the Crows?”

Marni was skeptical about having her preference considered. “What’s the Crows?” she asked, voice lined with doubt.

“You have not heard of the Crows?” he asked in mock surprise, clasping his hand to his heart. “The Crows are only the finest guild of assassins in all of Thedas.” His friendly smile broadened, “They are very powerful and very dangerous. They would temper and sharpen you into a deadly weapon. Does that tickle your fancy?”

Marni’s eyes flashed. If Anders could no longer be her unwitting teacher in how to turn her rage powerfully against those who wronged her, perhaps these Crows could. “Yeah, alright,” she said, trying to strip the emotion from her voice. “Sounds better than emptying shit pots or being sold for parts.”

“Indeed!” the Captain said with a laugh. “And do you suppose you’re worth the full forty this lovely lady is demanding? Be honest now.”

Marni blew a raspberry. “I’m _worth_ a lot more; but _she_ doesn’t deserve a red cent of it! But if it gets her off my arm, I’m all for you paying up.”

One of the other sailors clapped the captain on the back and grinned. “You heard her, Delgado! Pay the lady.”

The captain nodded and stood up. He extended a hand to Idesta. “Forty it is!”

Idesta took his hand and flushed with what Marni supposed was relief. “Excellent. Thank you, Captain. Shall we go to your ship now? I’m eager to head back to Tevinter.”

Delgado snapped his fingers and the third pirate handed him a bulging coin purse. Delgado dumped the contents on the bar, counted out forty gold and pushed the stack toward Idesta. Idesta hurriedly gathered her coin and nodded to the captain in thanks. She didn’t so much as say goodbye to Marni who spat at the mage as she turned to leave.


	8. Escape from Kirkwall

The air in Kirkwall was thick with smoke. Anders didn’t want to breathe it in too deeply, didn’t want to face the story that the choking odor of it told, the dead whose remains were mingled in that pungent airborne ash. Thanks to Hawke’s efforts there would be time to dwell on the right or the wrong of what he’d done, but for now he needed only to think of getting back to the ship before the Knight Captain’s mercy reached its end. He was certain that at any moment the Templars would be after them again, eager to close the head start Captain Cullen had granted. The others seemed to have the same worry; walking at a fast clip toward Isabella’s ship, Hawke and the others kept casting backward glances to check that the gate to the Gallows remained undisturbed. Aveline and Fenris looked to Anders as often as they looked to the gate, apparently uncertain if they were in greater danger from him or the Templars. It stung more than he’d thought it would.

Isabella was the first to reach the ship and waved for the others to hurry and board. Each member of their party jogged across the extended gangway to the deck of the ship at Isabella’s urging. Anders, at the rear of the group, was last to arrive. Before he could board, Fenris blocked his way, arms folded and face unyielding.

“We don’t have time for this,” Anders said tensely checking behind him again.

“He’s right, Fenris,” came Hawke’s voice and a placating hand on her lover’s shoulder. “You can have at each other when we’re safely out of the Templars’ path.”

Fenris glared at Hawke with as much contempt as he’d extended to Anders, but he obeyed, muttering “Foolish, very foolish,” as he made way for Anders to pass.

Anders felt a spark of selfish satisfaction that his actions had seeded discord between them, a pleasant warmth that spread through his cheeks before quickly turning to shame. He might take pleasure in Fenris’ misery, but not Hawke’s. “Thank you,” he said simply, walking across the springy slats of wood that bridged the gap between the dock and the ship.

With everyone on board, Hawke grabbed the left side of the gangway. “Aveline, give me a hand with this,” she called to her brawny friend.

Aveline stepped to Hawke’s side, but didn’t move to lift the board. “Hawke, no,” Aveline said firmly. Her husband Donnic close at heel kept an eye on Anders and a hand on his blade.

Hawke laughed more out of anxious exhaustion than her usual levity. “Aveline, this isn’t the time.”

“It has to be,” Aveline said simply. “I can’t leave, Kirkwall. Not now.”

Hawke released the board and stood up. “We _have_ to go,” she said, matching her friend’s determined tone.

“ _You_ have to go. I understand that. The Templars here will be out for blood, and any mage who stays behind will be a target.” Her eyes flited briefly to Anders before returning to Hawke. “But I have a duty to this city, and I can’t ignore the hand I played in all this… chaos!”

Hawke flushed and Ander’s shame deepened knowing that Hawke, like Aveline, felt a duty to this city, a duty she couldn’t act on. “Aveline, you didn’t have to…” Hawke began shakily.

“Don’t,” Aveline said, her hand slicing the tense air between them. “You know I did. What else could I have done? Cut you down?”

“Definitely not my preference.”

“I trust you enough to believe you made the best of a bad set of options. Your hand was forced, and so was mine. But now I have choices, and I choose to stay and try to put this mess right.”

Hawke’s eyes glinted either from the smoke or feeling. “We’ve been together through all of this,” Hawke said shaking her head.

Aveline grasped Hawke’s left forearm with her left hand, a gesture Hawke returned. “We have,” Aveline said with her characteristic curt warmth. “Be safe, Hawke.”

Hawke smiled wanly. “You too.”

Fenris shook Aveline’s and Donnic’s hands wordlessly, and Hawke gave Donnic a farewell pat on the shoulder before the two disembarked. Anders wasn’t sorry to see them go, except insofar as he regretted Hawke’s separation from a close friend. He’d half expected Aveline to demand he remain in Kirkwall himself and face charges; and part of him regretted that she hadn’t. Whatever surety he felt in the rightness of his actions, he also seethed at the injustice of his continuing to live and be free while innocent victims had unwillingly payed the price for mage liberation. Still, he wanted to believe that Hawke was right to shield him from harm, that he could do more good for mages across Thedas, could lead other Circles to rise up against their Templar jailers. But another part of him, the part that was not Justice, rebelled against the thought of having more blood on his hands, no matter the justice of his motives.

Hawke and Fenris raised the gangway together while Isabella and Varric wound the capstan to unmoor the ship. Soon The Siren’s Call II was at sea. Isabella barked orders from the helm while the others struggled with her nautical slang and emphatic pointing. “No, not that one!” she shouted to a perplexed Varric who froze in his fumbling with a rope. “It’s the one with the… Oh, never mind, I’ll do it myself. You just hold her steady!”

Anders leaned his forearms against the deck railing and looked across the increasing distance between him and Kirkwall. For all its failings, all the myriad reasons he hated this city, it had been his home for the better part of the last decade, and he was leaving people behind whom he would miss. Those wretched souls of Darktown, left to rot and be forgotten by the rich and powerful. He’d made a life among them, found family in people like Marni. And found a grounding purpose in caring for them when no one else would. Binding their wounds, delivering their children, nursing them to health through every blasted illness that swept relentlessly through the populace. If not for Justice, he might have found peace in that. Instead, here he was, fleeing again, as he had fled from the Circle, again and again, as he had fled from Amaranthine, each time leaving behind those he cared for. He closed his eyes against the pain of it, wondering if he could ever be the sort of person who could find a solid place to stand. Not likely with Justice constantly growling in his thoughts.

Angry whispers from across the deck snapped Anders’ attention. He opened his smoke stung eyes and turned to see Hawke trying to calm a furious Fenris. Anders strained to hear the content of their argument, but could guess at it based on Fenris gesturing in his direction to punctuate his rant. “He should not be here!” the elf said forcefully.

Hawke shushed him, responding in a quiet measured tone, “This isn’t up for debate, Fenris. It’s done.”

“It’s not done,” Fenris said, his voice raised. “He’s an abomination! Even you should see that now.”

Hawke widened her stance and crossed her arms. “Stop,” she said, her voice commanding and firm. “I’ve made my decision. He’s staying.”

Fenris took a menacing step toward her. “And why is it your decision to make?”

Hawke snorted and rolled her eyes. “Really, Fenris? Did I somehow miss the part where you took command of this merry band of misfits? This is my call, and if you don’t like it, I’ll have Isabella drop you off in Ostwick.”

“Is that what you want?” Fenris asked in a furious whisper. “For me to leave?”

Hawke’s shoulders dropped and she rolled her head back with an exasperated grunt. “Of course not,” she said blandly. “But I’ve made my decision in this, and I’m not changing my mind just because you’re feeling testy.”

“Testy?” Fenris snapped. “He is responsible for the deaths of hundreds!” he shouted, pointing at Anders again and turning the heads of everyone on deck who wasn’t already eavesdropping on their quarrel.

“I’m sure it wasn’t that many,” Merrill piped in, earning her a vicious snarl from Fenris.

“It certainly wasn’t that many,” Anders mumbled to himself as his face heated with familiar anger at the elf’s tendency to paint him the monster.

“This doesn’t concern you,” Fenris snapped at Merrill.

“Ho, ho!” Hawke laughed wryly, throwing her hands up. “And why not? You said the decision shouldn’t be mine, so it stands to reason that _everyone_ should have a vote. Should we start a poll?”

Fenris’ shook his head and sighed. He no doubt knew that Hawke’s position would have greater support if for no other reason than because it was Hawke’s position. He couldn’t hope to command the loyalty of these people in the way she did, and the realization took some of the steam out of his anger. “Have it your way, Hawke,” he said, turning from her to go. “I only hope your foolishness hasn’t damned us all.” Fenris stomped away and threw open the hatch to the lower decks. He gave Hawke one last bitter glare before descending out of sight.

Hawke pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead to still the throbbing that Fenris had no doubt brought to bear. She was flushed, and Anders could see the tension in her neck from where he stood. He watched her for a while, waffling on whether or not to go to her. Everyone else was giving her space, no doubt unsettled by the rare sight of Hawke fuming mad. But Anders’ key role in Hawke’s and Fenris’ argument made the muscles in his shoulder twinge with guilt. So, with a deep breath to steel himself, Anders crossed the deck to Hawke’s side.

As he approached, Hawke exhaled heavily. “He’s just being Fenris. He won’t do anything,” she said wearily.

“I’m not worried about that,” Anders said softly. “I wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

Hawke smiled sardonically. “Of course I’m alright,” she said with mock brightness. “Why wouldn’t I be alright?”

There was a time when he would have joked back, joined in her effort to lighten the mood. But the years had weighed on Anders, and he no longer had that lightness in him, as much as he still admired it in her. “I’m sorry he’s taking this out on you.”

She snorted. “He knows I won’t allow him to take you on directly. It’s just venting. After a good night’s sleep, he’ll be back to his surly self.”

Anders shook his head. “He wasn’t just venting. He thinks you should have killed me.”

“Oh is _that_ what he was getting at? Why didn’t he just say so?” she looked at Anders, hoping for a smile. But Anders couldn’t manage one, not even for her. “Fenris is just going to have to accept that I don’t execute my friends, no matter how off the rails they go.”

Anders frowned. “Off the rails?” The words stung.

She laughed. “You _did_ blow up a Chantry, Anders. I understand why you did it, but it was hardly a committee-approved solution.”

Anders’ nostrils flared. “Don’t make light of this, Hawke. What I did…” His throat tightened with the self-loathing that flared as he thought of the lives lost that day. How could any end justify that? “Maybe you should kill me,” he said darkly, “before I hurt anyone else.”

“Stop that,” she said putting her head on his shoulder. The warmth from her contact made the world whole again, if only for a moment. They stood there for a long while in silence, listening to the creaking of the ship and sloshing of the waves. As the sun sank below the horizon, most of the others made their way to the barracks. Only Isabella at the wheel, Anders, and Hawke remained. Hawke’s sleepy whisper cut through the quiet: “I’m sorry.”

Her apology startled him. “For Fenris? That’s hardly your…”

She straightened up and faced him, and Anders saw the tears that streaked her face. “Not for Fenris.” Her lip quivered, and Anders had to resist the urge to hold her, knowing that it wasn’t his place.

“For what, then?” he asked gently.

“For failing you,” she said, a sob breaking through.

“What?” he said incredulously, completely shaken by her words and unconcealed feeling. “You haven’t…”

She held up her hand to quiet him. “I did. You were drowning, and I didn’t see it, or couldn’t admit it to myself. I left you to be slowly smothered by Justice when I should have recognized that you were losing yourself to him.”

Hawke’s guilt cut deeper than her judgement ever could have. He grasped her arms fervently. “You can’t blame yourself. If what I did today was wrong, it’s my shame to carry. Not yours. Never yours.”

Hawke shook her head. “I was too damned caught up in my family, the Qunari, and Meredith. I didn’t understand what Justice was doing to you. What he made you do… I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

Anders turned from her, his face contorting with a mix of anger, shame, and love. “Stop taking responsibility!” he shouted. “You always do this! You can’t change everything or everyone; you don’t have that much power. Whatever Justice has turned me into is my fault, no one else’s. There’s nothing you could have done. Not now, not ever.”

He heard Hawke sigh behind him. “I don’t accept that. No matter how strong Justice’ hold on you is, I still see the part of you that is Anders. And I promise, we’ll find a way to make this right again.”

He whirled on her, outraged by her suggestion. “There’s nothing to make right! Don’t you get it? The good and the bad, the monster and the man. It’s all me! Justice can’t be boiled off like water from a salt solution.” He reached into his boot and pulled out a small knife. Hawke took a step back but he caught her wrist and closed her fingers around the knife’s hilt. He pulled her close and put the blade to his throat. “If you want to be rid of Justice, you can kill us now. No one would blame you. Maker, they’d probably thank you!”

Hawke, flushed and furious, kicked him smartly in the shins and pulled away when his grip loosened. She threw the knife overboard and returned to Anders to punch him in the jaw before making for the hatch to the lower deck. He almost laughed at how good it felt to have her justified anger redirected at him, the proper target.

“You deserved that one,” Isabella said from the helm.

Anders rubbed his jaw. “I deserved far more.”

Isabella shrugged. “At least you have the balls to admit it.”

 

 

    

 


End file.
